Post 181

This is pretty much the coolest thing I've ever encountered. It gives me so much hope for me and my future endeavors. I give you "How Ballad Writing Affects Our Seniors" by the late, great Ernest Hemingway, age 19:

Oh, I've never writ a ballad
And I'd rather eat shrimp salad,
(Tho' the Lord knows how I hate the
Pink and scrunchy little beasts),
But Miss Dixon says I gotto-
(And I pretty near forgotto)
But I'm sitting at my table
And my feet are pointing east.

Now one stanza, it is over-
Oh! Heck, what rhymes with "Over"?
Ah! yes; "I'm now in clover,"
But when I've got that over
I don't yet know what to write.
I might write of young Lloyd Boyle,
Sturdy son of Irish soil,
But to write of youthful Boyle
Would involve increasing toil,
For there is so much material
I'd never get it done.

Somewhere in this blessed metre
There's a crook. The stanzas peter
Out before I get them started
Just like that one did, just then.
But I'll keep a-writing on
Just in hope some thought will strike me.
When it does, I'll let it run
Just in splashes off my pen.

(Wish that blamed idea would come.)
I've been writing for two pages,
But it seems like countless ages,
For I've scribbled and I've scribbled,
But I haven't said a thing.
This is getting worse each minute,
For whatever I put in it
I shall have to read before the English class.

'Know where I would like to be-
Just a-lyin' 'neath a tree.
Watchin' clouds up in the sky-
Fleecy clouds a-sailin' by
And we'd look up in the blue-
Only me, an' maybe you.
I could write a ballad then
That would drip right off my pen.
(Aw shucks)

For the future I shall promise
(IF you let me live this time),
I'll ne'er write another ballad-
Never venture into rhyme.